6. Mason
Mason
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
I look up at the monitor and see Christine and her daughter, Kirsten, waiting in the front of the bakery. Frustrated, I slam down my measuring cup and rush to greet them. “Yes, I’m here.”
“What happened to Madeleine?” Kirsten asks with wide eyes.
Good question, kid. “She doesn’t work here anymore,” I say.
“Oh.” Kirsten looks sadly at the sprinkle cookies.
Christine pats her daughter’s head. “That’s all right. I’m sure we’ll see her around. And the cookies still taste the same.”
“It’s not the same!“ Kirsten wails. “I don’t want a cookie now!”
Her mom looks back at me and laughs nervously. “Kirsten loves Madeleine. All that time she spent baking with the foster kids must have given her a special touch.”
I swallow hard. “Foster kids?”
“She didn’t tell you?” Christine tilts her head to the side. “When she was in New York, she would spend her free time running baking classes for foster children. She said it was one of the highlights of her time there.”
An ache fills my chest. Another piece of Madeleine’s backstory that fills me with guilt. No wonder she was so moved by the safety of our town, and the way the children were running around freely at the Annual Fountain Festival.
I don’t say anything, but Christine fills the silence. “I’m sure Kirsten will want a cookie later. We’ll take six sprinkle cookies.”
I bag them up for her, avoiding my feelings of guilt and Kirsten’s death glare. They pay for the cookies and wave good-bye, and the smell of burnt cookies reaches my nose.
“No!” I exclaim and rush back to the kitchen. Yanking open the oven door, billows of smoke surround me and make me cough. I wave an oven mitt around, trying to clear the air, when the smoke alarm goes off.
“You have got to be kidding me.“ Thankfully, I have an advanced system that allows me to override the alarm with an app on my phone.
Which I left in the front of the bakery.
I jog to the front and find I’m not alone.
“Hello, Mason,” my mom says calmly over the loud alarm. “Everything going smoothly?”
I grunt and open the app to shut off the alarm. Done. The silence is a blessed relief, but the smell of burnt cookies still permeates the air.
“I see you’re having some trouble now that Madeleine is gone.”
I huff and head back to the kitchen, knowing she’ll follow me there. I start scraping the burnt cookies off the tray and throwing them in the trash.
Mom puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I set down the tray with a sigh.
“It’s been awful,” I admit.
She pulls me into a hug, and even though I tower over her now, it’s a welcome gesture.
Then she smacks the back of my head.
“Hey!” I exclaim, rubbing the sore spot.
“You deserve it,” she says, pointing a finger at me. “I can’t believe you let her go. She was the best thing for the bakery.” She puts her finger down and lowers her voice. “And for you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” My head is still sore, but I turn back to my work of throwing away the ruined cookies.
“I know exactly what I’m talking about. She was perfect. Not only did she help in the front, but she fixed your vanilla cookies and got you that order for the Autumn Festival.”
“How do you know about that?”
“I talked to Suzette.” She crosses her arms. “How do you plan on making two hundred of Madeleine’s cookies without her?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
Mom grabs my arms and turns me toward her. “You need her. And not just for her cookies.”
I raise my eyebrows at her, and she narrows her eyes at me. “You know what I mean,” she says.
I can’t help the smirk on my face, but I tame it back to the scowl that’s been permanently etched since Madeleine left.
My mom notices. “And that’s exactly what I’m talking about! When she was here, you two were joking, laughing, and baking together. You were so happy. And now, you’re angry and sullen. Not to mention falling behind on your work.”
“So what do you suggest I do?” I ask. I genuinely want to know.
“Go apologize.”
I shake my head. “She won’t listen. I went too far with my tests.”
“That’s true, you did.” She pauses and rubs her hand on my arm. “But maybe this is the final test. If you can gain her forgiveness, there could be something really special for the two of you.”
I don’t have to ask if she means for me personally or for the business, because I know.
She means both.
Madeleine is perfect for me in every way. She challenges me, makes me a better baker, and a better person.
And I ruined it, just like I ruined these cookies.
“I’ll take over the front for the rest of the day,” my mom says. “But please take this time to consider what I’m saying. And if you can figure out a way to apologize that will show her you care…even better.”
She turns and leaves through the swinging door without waiting for my acknowledgment, because she knows she’s right. She usually is, even though I’d never tell her that.
I scan the kitchen, grateful I can focus on baking, but overwhelmed at the mess I’ve left for myself. I start taking the empty trays to the sink, and something pink and sparkly in the corner of the room catches my eye.
Madeleine’s notebook.
Did she leave it here this whole time? I’m sure she misses it, although she said she wouldn’t be able to bake much in her parents’ tiny apartment. Still, I should bring it back to her.
I flip through the pages, smiling at the notes she left for herself throughout. Too much salt. Not enough leavening. Needs more chocolate chips!!!!
At the end of the notebook, I find a list.
Ideas to help Mason with his bakery
- Change the name
- Add decorations
- Figure out his gluten-free cookies (peas?)
- Secure orders and help him bake them
Last week, this list would have made me upset, the same way I worried that she was trying to take over. But I realize what she titled the list: “Ways to help Mason with his bakery.”
I’m such an idiot.
I let my issues with Natalie overshadow the fact that she was trying to be the perfect complement. She wasn’t trying to take over; she was trying to be my partner.
And that’s what I truly need.
I look over the list, and my eyes catch on a different word this time: peas. My brain starts formulating a way to show her that I’m sorry. I just have to pray she’ll understand.